Page 13 of Scars and Crowns

The word lands somewhere deep enough to hurt. I've been called Your Highness.

Hukum.

Maharaj.

Your Majesty.

Countless titles. None of them have ever bothered me. This one does.

Because once . . . I was Pretty Boy.

I was Yuvaan.

I was an idiot.

A nuisance.

Her favourite person to argue with.

Never . . . Sir.

The distance packed inside that single word feels greater than the seven years between us. I open my mouth. I don't even know what I want to say.

Her name.

Why?

Where have you been?

Are you alright?

Did you ever think about me?

Why are you here?

Why didn't you come to me?

A hundred questions rush forward together. None of them make it past my lips. Because she's already turning away. Too quickly. Far too quickly. She's holding the empty tray tightly against her chest now.

Not carrying it. Shielding herself behind it.

Her footsteps are careful.

Fast.

Not the pace of someone leaving after finishing a task.

The pace of someone escaping before she loses the strength to.

"Anamika—" My voice follows her. But she's already reached the door. The wooden panel closes between us with a soft click. The sound is barely audible.

It still feels deafening.

Silence crashes back into the room.

I remain standing exactly where I am, one hand half-raised toward a door that's already closed. The coffee sits untouched on my desk. Thin ribbons of steam rise from the porcelain cup, twisting slowly before disappearing into the afternoon light.

I stare at it without seeing it.